by D Mickleson
“What’s the difference between a thief and a looter, Cap’n?” asked Alden in with a straight face.
“Shut up, smart ass or you’ll be cleaning stables for a month. Now, I’m not too sure of these Guardians. Yes, they look fine gleaming in the sun, but what happens in a real fight? It’ll be up to you two to make sure—”
“We got it, don’t worry yourself. The Seer’s as good as in the Fane already. Sir,” Alden added as an afterthought. Brand looked like reprimanding him for interrupting, but apparently deciding there was no point, he walked away.
Gorbald was finally coming to the conclusion of his speech. “And so we’ve seen her exqui—exquiscent beauty. Yes, but its clear to all and sundry that though she is a woman, she’s more than some common serving wench, more than a pretty face and a pleasant sight to look on. A man shouldn’t even think about the Seer that way. She’s the Seer, and that’s what makes her special! Three cheers, everybody! Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!”
The villagers were too subdued at this early hour to shout along with him, but there was much polite clapping as the Seer, with a farewell wave, climbed back into her carriage followed by her serving girl.
With a crack of the coachman’s whip, the carriage trundled beneath the gate and out of the villagers’ sight. Triston spurred his horse, joining Alden at the rear of the procession, feeling both delight and foreboding as he passed under the shadow of the gate.
The path wound a sinuous course down the hill, forded a small brook, then crossed a long trough of undulating lowlands between Magog’s Rise and the Catspine Mountains which rose up some twenty miles to the east. As the company wended their way down Wyrmskull’s hill, Triston stretched his eyes across the plain, watching the Catspines’ jagged crests rise and fall with his horse’s every jolt. He had been as far as their base on many an errand, but never beyond, and the thought that later that very day he would be high up in those hills filled his heart with expectation.
When they reached the ford they saw companies of villagers, including most of the remaining Fighters, scattered up and down the stream searching for Sarconius’ trail. Triston and Alden passed them by with a shout and a wave, drawing a disapproving look from the Guardian who had accosted them at breakfast. All their way down the hill, Alden had watched this man, whose name they learned from the Guardians’ speech together to be Bullistrode, eyeing him darkly and grumbling to himself.
“Just leave it. It doesn’t matter,” he whispered under his breath, but Alden took no notice.
They entered a pleasant country of gentle farmlands awash in living seas of wheat and corn, orchards laid out in neat rows already laden with fruit, and sturdy farmhouses of smooth creek-rock and cedar logs. But the cultivated country which fed the village above very soon gave way to more rugged terrain, rolling hillsides of verdant grass pocked by rocky outcroppings and lined with crumbling stone walls. Sheep and cattle stared back at Triston with vacant eyes, their mouths and minds filled with grass. Herdsmen Triston scarcely recognized watched them pass, the dull expressions they wore reminding him of the looks given by their four-legged charges.
They had been riding in silence for an hour, Triston having long since given up all attempts to draw his friend into conversation, and were just coming to the end of the pastoral lands. Suddenly Alden let out a loud, “Ha!” and gave Triston a look of sheer triumph. The coachman and, at the front of the procession, all four Guardians, turned to him in surprise. He beamed at them, waving. Triston raised one eyebrow, sensing trouble.
“What’s up?” he asked warily.
“Just enjoying the pleasant weather. Can’t a man laugh for joy?” He broke into a whistle, urging his horse to a greater speed and bouncing in his saddle. Triston trotted up beside him.
“OK, so what’s really going on?” he asked, more wary still.
“Did you see that shepherdess back there? She seemed quite taken with you. Pity we couldn’t stop to find out her name.”
“You mean the one with the mustache or the one with the hair lip?”
“The one with the mustache was a girl? Huh. I thought that was the hair lip’s big brother.”
“Alden, are you going to tell me what’s going on or not?”
“Should be lunch time in an hour or two. I’m starving.”
“Come on!”
“Is it just me or did all their sheep look cross-eyed too? Maybe they’re all related.”
“Right.”
Time passed more quickly after this, the two friends talking and laughing as the countryside rolled past. Triston managed to spin the story of mad Arloon into quite a tale, making stuff up in parts and exaggerating the old man’s antics, but drawing hoots of laughter for his efforts. Alden waxed eloquent on the sights and sounds of Luskoll, fueling a fire in Triston’s belly to see the exotic city.
The road stretched on before them while the sun ascended to the zenith of its long summer track. Soon the clattering carriage wheels ahead were straining up a well-worn series of pine-shrouded switchbacks, beginning their skyward trek up the rugged Catspines.
Triston and Alden were in the throes of trying to outdo each other with tales of their hunting exploits, when Alden looked up with a scowl. “What do you want?” he demanded angrily. Triston glanced up, seeing the same surly Guardian riding back to meet them.
“You’ll change your tone with me, boy, or have it changed for you. Apparently this morning’s lesson didn’t sink in quite like I’d hoped,” he said through a gloating smile, flexing his fist on the reigns as he spoke.
Alden’s eyes flashed but the man cut off his response with an imperious raise of the hand. “Be silent or I’ll have you tied to a tree and flogged. I command here and you’ll follow my orders. We’re stopping for a lunch and a rest. But you—”
“Good. I’m starving.”
“But you will get neither. One of you must wait in attendance on Her Grace’s company while we eat and the other must keep watch up the road for signs of movement.” The man never took his eyes off Alden, and by his mocking leer they knew which of them he would choose for the humiliating task of serving lunch.
But Alden spoke before the man could continue. “I’d be happy to serve the Seer. It would be an honor.” These words came with such genuine-sounding sincerity that Triston nearly believed him. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rising.
“Fine,” said the Guardian crisply, looking a little deflated. “You come with me and prepare Her Grace’s table. And you,” he said, addressing Triston without looking at him, “proceed one hundred paces to that high point and give a shout if you see so much as a shepherd boy coming our way.”
They trotted in silence to where the Seer’s carriage had pulled off the track into a shaded copse beside by a chattering stream. Triston made several attempts to make eye contact with Alden, but his friend only looked ahead, humming softly and smiling to himself. Triston felt his unease grow. If there was one consolation, whatever Alden was scheming—a vat of wine “accidentally” spilled over the man’s head or deer dung on his meat—keeping watch meant Triston would be far removed and out of trouble.
A minute later, he’d ascended to the top of a rocky outcropping which overlooked their way for some distance. Gazing along the road as it wound its course into the heights above, his mind conjured up an image of Lord Sarconius at the head of a gleaming Meridian army marching down to meet them. But his eyes found neither man nor beast astir. Behind him, the sound of merry female voices chatting with the men told him the Seer and her lady-in-waiting had emerged from the carriage. With a backward glance, he saw Alden assisting the Seer to a high-backed chair at the head of a makeshift table.
As Triston watched, to his surprise, she turned and looked straight at him, her smile robbing a beat from his heart even at this distance. He quickly lowered his eyes and turned away, feeling his face flush.
Confused but gratified, Triston tried to amuse himself with the antics of a young rabbit popping in and out of its hole to
taunt a hunting fox. But soon his mind began to wander freely. The Seer was only being friendly. There was nothing more to it than that. But what if it was more than that?
No. It couldn’t be. For one thing, she was forbidden romantic dalliances by Fane tradition. Her power over the earth was supposed to be strengthened by her purity. And if she did allow herself the occasional lovers’ tryst, she could have anyone. What would she want with him? Was he sure he wanted her? She was much older than him, maybe more than twice his age, but such beauty . . . .
He jumped at the sound of a high-pitched squeal in front of him, followed by the snap of a twig underfoot behind him. Turning to face whoever approached, he was slightly disturbed to see, out of the corner of his eye, the fox, furry prize dangling from his mouth, disappear into the underbrush.
“A fine watch you keep, my lad. Surprised as a hare caught in a trap you look. I’d wager you had no idea I was coming, eh?” A middle-aged Guardian was looking up at him a friendly-eye. “No matter. You won’t find nobody on this joy-forsaken road. No sense keeping watch. Name’s Dornan. I know who you are already. Come, Her Grace wishes you to break bread at her table.” There was a pause, and then, “Well, come on, laddie, stop staring and follow me. It’s no good keeping Her Ladyship waiting.”
More confused than ever, Triston followed the man down to join the company. He half-expected the Seer to sit him beside her, but instead she gestured with a soft smile to an empty stool at the table’s foot. Standing at attention nearby, Alden gave a disgruntled stare as Triston awkwardly seated himself.
The white-caped Guardian glowered at him, but vented his ire at Alden. “More wine here, boy. And I wouldn’t say no to another serving of kidney pie neither,” he demanded with a backward glance. “And be quick about it.”
“Triston dear,” said the Seer in her musical voice, “please help yourself to whatever you see. And I’m sure your friend here will be happy to pour you a little wine.” Triston thanked her, glancing at an annoyed-looking Alden with amusement before grabbing a small loaf and a pheasant wing from a nearby basket.
“Now, I know events necessitate our timely arrival at Fort Ironwood, but one cannot pass up the chance to enjoy a fine luncheon such as this in such an ideal setting.”
“Hear, hear,” said Dornan, raising his cup in toast.
But Alden’s new enemy, who had just taken an enormous bite of kidney pie and washed it down with a generous mouthful of wine, gave a small grunt of dissent.
“Well, I see the Sergeant Bullistrode demurs. And what is the reason, good man?”
Bullistrode took a long time swallowing while the others watched in silence. “Please, Your Grace. No disrespect meant, I assure you. But I would that we pressed on through these uncouth regions. There’s no telling what this dark forest conceals, and our company is not great. We’d counted on the Meridian lord’s men to be with us on our return but he’s gone rogue. And who knows where he is in all this wild expanse. Listening to me right now, likely as not. I set this peasant on watch but you’ve got him at your table. Why should that be I ask?”
The Seer had grown very still. “You speak freely, sir,” she said, eyeing him coolly. “Now I, in turn, will answer freely. I fear no attack. But if anyone would be so foolish as to assail me, they would soon learn better. And besides,” she went on, raising a gold-rimmed glass. “What harm could befall us when we have the gallant son of the mighty Trinian Slendrake with us?” She inclined the cup in Triston’s direction, and he felt his face beginning to burn with embarrassment.
The other three Guardians and the young lady-in-waiting turned to him with interest, but Bullistrode’s face, which was now looking surprisingly red, contorted into a scowl. He opened his mouth to speak again, but with a sudden glance at the Seer, shut it and returned to his pie in silence.
Triston wished they would quit staring. “Whatever powers my father possessed, Your Grace, I don’t have them.”
“And how could you know that, as you were too young to know him?” she asked quietly.
“I’m not sure what he had, but whatever it was, I know I don’t have it.
“Why didn’t you know your father growing up?” asked the young lady, watching his face keenly.
Triston opened his mouth to speak but found no words. A heavy silence fell in which all save Alden stared unabashedly at him.
After a moment, the Seer answered, placing a gentle hand on her lady’s shoulder. “Trinian died the year Triston was born. We heard the news even in Luskoll.” She shook her head sadly, looking at Triston. “The loss to your village was very great, but your father, such a young man, had already served a momentous purpose for Wyrmskull. If it wasn’t for him, I daresay the Farthians would have completely overrun the village. His heroics on the day they attacked drove them back single-handedly it was said.”
“The Farthians? You mean the tree-dwellers from the Wildwood?” asked the girl, her eyes widening.
“That’s right, Alessia,” answered the Seer indulgently. “But what was most interesting to me were the rumors. I admit, Triston, I’ve been curious about them ever since I heard them so many years ago.”
She paused, looking up at the sky which shone blue between the leafy branches above. In the dappled light reflecting from her eyes, Triston could almost feel her mind drift back to another time and place. “You see, from what I gathered later, the long-quiet Wildwood suddenly shook under the trampling feet of an avenging host. The Wildmen had risen out of legend to settle their ancient score against Corellia, and against the villagers of Wyrmskull in particular, who they hate above all. The Farthians will never forgive the descendants of Willbrand for the death of the dragon, whom they worshipped.”
Suddenly her far off expression became very present, and she fixed her eyes on Triston, who could not look away. Each word seemed to pass directly from her mind to his, as if the two of them alone relived the famous event. “There could be no proof, mind you, as the Farthians always bear their dead with them off the battlefield, even when they flee. But those who watched from a distance claim Slendrake’s sword sparked and flashed with an inner flame, that the bodies of his foes were blackened like coals, that as darkness settled over the hilltop, his eyes were alight as if his very insides were filled with fire.”
She ceased. Perfect silence reigned at the table and in the surrounding woods. Triston thought he perceived something like accusation in the eyes of the others as they continued to stare, as if they feared he too possessed some dark power. His anger rising, he glared back at each in turn. All but the Seer looked away. Was this why she called him down to eat with them, so she could taunt him about his father? Those rumors had been the bane of his existence. How often had he longed to slay them, to swing a sword and make them go away? He rose stiffly, unsure of what to do or say. But then—
Bullistrode cleared his throat importantly. “Ah well. All’s well that ends well. That’s what I always say.”
“What was that?” Triston demanded, his muscles stiffening. He stared at the man through a haze of anger, dimly surprised to find the sergeant’s face, even redder now than before, was sweaty and sickly. Alden made a hasty motion toward the man as though to stop him, but checked himself.
“Well, I’m just saying, that’s all.” He looked around at them with a languid expression, the Seer returning his gaze with a deepening frown. “Not surprising he met a sticky end though, is it?” he said, looking down into his cup. “Got caught dabbling in the dark arts. I’d have taken my life too if it was me. Not natural, whatever he done to get those powers. Chose to end it all. Probably the right move if you ask me.” He let out a loud belch, then took another swig of wine, smacking his lips in a satisfied way.
Triston’s sword seemed to have leapt into his hand of its own accord. All other thoughts forgotten, he rushed around the table, weapon raised, determined to bring the butt of the hilt down on the wretch’s head, to silence those hateful words. The man looked up dully, seeming surprised by Tristo
n’s onslaught, as though they had merely been discussing the weather. His eyes widened. For a moment Triston’s steel sword, reflecting the midday sun with ferocity to match its owner’s mind, hovered over the man’s defenseless head. Then Triston was stumbling backward, strong hands were dragging him away, irresistibly pulling down his arm. Someone was shouting in his face.
“Triston! Hold still. Stop struggling. Just stop! It’s me, Alden. Listen, you can’t kill him. Just calm down. There you go. That’s it.”
“Come on, laddie,” said the kind-faced Guardian, looking extremely worried, “this way. Let’s take a breather over here by this rock. Come on now.”
But Triston had stopped listening. Straining against their hold, he jerked his head around to face Bullistrode, a challenge to duel on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he halted, astonished. The man was staring at the Seer, apparently oblivious to Triston’s wrath, and tears were streaming down his face.
“Your Grace, I’m so sorry,” he sobbed thickly, misery etched on his pain-racked visage as he stared into her shocked face. “I’ve been such a fool.”
The Seer slowly rose from her seat, her eyes fixed on Bullistrode, her expression wrathful. The effect was unsettling to Triston, even in his heated state. “You should be sorry, Sergeant. That was no way to speak of the dead. But come now, what has come over you? Your behavior is most unsuitable.”
“The dead?” said the weeping man, a note of confusion added to the pleading in his voice. “I don’t know what you mean by dead. I’m still alive, right enough. But you might say I should be ‘dead’ after what I’ve done. I should say, what ‘we’ve done’ since I wasn’t alone in it.” Everyone watched in increasing perplexity as he turned to the man next to him, a mustachioed young Guardian who was staring down at the sitting Bullistrode with fear in his widening eyes.
Bullistrode wiped his face clumsily, leaving a smudge of tears and dirt in his hand’s wake. “You know, don’t you, Letchen? What we did on the way to Leviathan that day when her Grace asked us to leave her in peace while she bathed by the roadside? Remember?”